


Stuff We Did

by Captain_Panda



Series: My Greatest Adventure [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aging, Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old Together, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Married Couple, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, This Will Hurt You; It Hurt Me, Tony Stark Has A Heart, uplifting ending, you know the movie 'Up'? yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: When the end comes, there is no last act of defiance from the great Tony Stark.The "Up" AU prequel toMarried Life.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: My Greatest Adventure [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095125
Comments: 29
Kudos: 55





	Stuff We Did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivergift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivergift/gifts).



> First of all, thank you very much to everyone who remarked so kindly on _[Married Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047944)_. It truly means the world.
> 
> Second of all, thank you in particular to rivergift, an absolute sweetheart who inspired me to revisit this 'verse. I hope this piece plays an appropriately emotional ditty with your heartstrings, as it did mine. Your kindness is worth (three) thousand words. 
> 
> Third and finally, yes, this fic contains character death. If you missed the tag, please be advised and turn back now if that is not your cup of tea. While the ending uplifts, it does not erase what happens.
> 
> Thank you and good day.
> 
> Your grateful Captain,  
> -Panda
> 
> P.S. _[Stuff We Did](https://youtu.be/16N4OjhjZAE)_ by Michael Giacchino.  
> 

“Let’s go to the park,” Tony said on the last Wednesday. “I want to see the swans.”

Steve looked out the window. “It’s going to rain,” he warned.

“Swans like the rain,” Tony replied. “Don’t tell me you’d rather sit there.”

“I like sitting here,” Steve protested. His chair was quite comfortable. With a good book, he felt sure he could sit there forever.

“I want to see the swans,” Tony insisted.

Steve said, “Why don’t you ask Rhodey to go with you?”

“Rhodey’s with his sister,” Tony reminded. Looking Steve over one last time, Tony shoved his hands into his coat pockets and announced, “I’ll be back.”

Steve nodded. “Don’t get attacked by a swan.”

“Little faith,” Tony huffed. He was nearly out the door, footsteps thudding familiarly on the hardwood, when he called back, “I love you.”

Steve gripped the book in his hands a little tighter. “Love you,” he echoed.

* * *

When night began to fall to the steady patter of rain and Tony did not return, Steve sighed and went to go find him.

“I can’t find them,” Tony said, upset, as he sat on a bench near the water.

Steve set his umbrella over Tony’s head, even though it was rather pointless—Tony’s jacket was already as wet as it could be, his entire mood dampened. “They don’t like the rain,” Steve reminded gently. 

Steve still looked around the pond, hoping against hope to see the black swans that had been reintroduced floating around, but it was clear as day that there were none. “Come on, Tony,” he urged. “Let’s go home.”

Tony did not respond, shoulders hunched, sadder than Steve had seen him in a long, long time. Steve stepped around carefully, aware his bad knee could give out on him on the soggy grass at any moment—Tony always chided him for never being careful in his youth, and the serum had started to wear off some time ago, now barely healing scratches above an average rate—but not caring. It was more important to sit next to Tony than to fear falling.

Together, they sat in the rain, watching the droplets prickle the pond, until the darkness drew out the lights. Like two old swans, they leaned under the same umbrella, Tony’s head resting on his shoulder like it belonged there.

As the cold began to set in, Steve said, “Hey, let’s go to the bakery. We’ll get a pie.”

Tony did not respond.

“Or a couple slices of cheesecake,” Steve went on. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I’m not hungry,” Tony said. It wasn’t mean or mad, just a statement of fact.

“You like cheesecake,” Steve insisted. “We can make a meal of it.” He’d almost never condoned such behavior—meals were meant to be hearty, desserts light and sweet, like ice cream—but he hated to see Tony sad. “What d’ya say, Tony?”

“I said, I want to go home,” Tony said, very stubbornly.

Steve squeezed the hand closest to him. “All right. We’ll go home.” 

Like two old swans, they stuck close to each other as they finally abandoned the bench and wandered home in the rain.

* * *

The very next morning, Steve awoke especially early to make breakfast. 

Cooking wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, and he took no particular pride in his work—it was serviceable but not special—but he was proud he could keep his little family fed. Even if his little family had become a little smaller than he was used to.

[Casper](https://www.pets4homes.co.uk/images/breeds/397/large/d8726538f9bbe6832463d780f70edc6c.jpg), the "Friendly Ghost," had been gone for almost six months, now, but the loss was still poignant when Steve looked at the empty dog dishes. The half-blind, dark-furred, perpetually-smiling Swedish Lapphund had always looked up at them like they were the best thing he’d ever seen.

The very worst thing about growing old was how fast the time went. It seemed like yesterday Tony had carried the squirming puppy home. Casper had lived an adventurous life—he’d lost an eye after being hit by a car, nearly took a tumble off a ravine before Steve dove to catch him (he still had the bad back to prove it), and even managed to get stuck in a tree in pursuit of a squirrel—before kicking the bucket at fourteen. 

Despite his occasional schemes, like digging out the garden, Casper had been a damn good dog, and Steve—well, Steve missed him terribly, too.

He waited for Tony to join him, but as the bacon cooled and Tony did not make an appearance, Steve plodded up the stairs to find him.

Tony was still fast asleep, one arm curled around Steve’s pillow. Steve’s back did not permit them to sleep cozied up to each other like they used to. He knocked gently on the doorframe, earning an inquisitive grunt from the pillows. “Breakfast,” he said simply.

“G’mornin’,” Tony replied, pushing his face into the pillow. “I’ll … b’ down in a bit.”

Steve left him.

High noon arrived. “Breakfast,” he said again, having eaten the first batch of food and cooked up a second.

Tony snored into the pillow. Steve sighed, approached, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Tony grunted back at him. “’m tired,” he complained. “Lea’ me alone.”

“Gotta eat sometime,” Steve reminded him. Tony could be stubborn as a mule about his own feeding—sometimes he’d gorge and make himself sick, other times he’d ignore his own needs until he was on the verge of collapse—but Steve refused to let him hurt himself if he could help it. Tony assured him that it wasn’t out of self-spite but simple forgetfulness. Steve believed him, even if he squeezed Tony’s shoulder gently, insisting, “Come on. I made your favorite.”

“I don’t have a favorite,” Tony grumbled, but he did shuffle upright, batting Steve’s helping hand away loosely.

He ate breakfast without enthusiasm. Steve felt a bit bad about it, but Tony offered no audible complaints to respond to, so he let it be. Tony hated being fussed over, even if it was obvious he wasn’t happy. Better to let him come forward and say his mind than try and read it for him.

Tony announced, “I’m gonna go lie down,” and Steve didn’t stop him.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Steve brought him a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup.

Tony sat up for him, even ate a few bites, then said abruptly, “We haven’t seen the Parkers in a while.”

“We saw them two weeks ago,” Steve replied.

“Too long,” Tony said, already reaching for his phone. Into it, he barked, “Peter? Peter, where the hell are you, I can barely hear you?”

From the other end of the line, Steve could just hear the faint noise of pure pandemonium. “Peter, we’re coming over, tell Michelle,” Tony said firmly. More _wah-wah_ noises, barely audible to Steve. “No, not this minute, tonight,” Tony corrected loudly.

The _wah-wahs_ increased greatly in enthusiasm. “Goodbye,” Tony said abruptly, and hung up, shaking his head. “Kids these days.”

* * *

“Robotics’ competition,” Peter explained, showing them footage of two robots attacking each other with gusto, cheering kids filling up the background noise. “Benjy’s team won regionals. They’re out celebrating.”

“Peter, listen to me, I have an idea,” Tony interjected. “Write this down.”

Steve said, “Tony, let him eat,” but Peter abandoned his plate and jolted off to fetch pen and paper. 

Tony didn’t even wait for him to sit down again before beginning to orate his latest great idea. It made no sense to Steve—most of Tony’s more technical talk didn’t, these days, and Tony did little to hold his hand, insisting only that he listen, not understand—but earned an, “Oh, cool,” from the kid. Even Michelle, seated calmly at the table, asked, “Can you really do that?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Tony said. He pushed his half-eaten plate aside, gesturing for the pen that Peter happily surrendered, leaning in to watch the master at his craft as Tony sketched around the notes with a shaky hand. “Dammit,” he muttered, Peter patting his back consolingly as he drew a jagged mark through his design. “Don’t patronize me,” he grumbled, but he seemed more good-natured than angry about it.

Eventually, Michelle and Steve retired to the living area to chat over coffee while Peter and Tony carried on at the kitchen table. 

At some hour, little miss May Parker came prancing downstairs to show off her new blue cape. “Mama, Mama, I’m a _superhero_!” she announced.

“ _Aren’t_ you?” Michelle said, letting her seven-year-old daughter clamber into her lap. “What kind?” she asked seriously.

“I can _fly_ ,” replied May.

“Oh, my,” Michelle said, “a flying superhero, in _my_ home?” May giggled as her Mama tickled her, squealing as she darted away. “How will I ever catch her?”

“Fast!” May replied.

A sharp cry from the kitchen had Steve on his feet in an instant. He nearly knocked over little miss May as he lurched around the corner. 

Peter had an anxious hand on Tony’s back. Tony was hunched forward, a hand over his heart, face twisted in a grimace. Steve’s own heart began to pound as he staggered forward. “Call a doctor,” he ordered. 

“What’s happening?” Michelle asked from the other room.

“I don’t know,” Steve snapped back, a little too loudly, while Tony gawked a little, hand over his heart, face paling noticeably. “Call a doctor!” He nearly shoved Peter out of the way, hurriedly wrapping an arm around Tony, asking, “Tony? Tony, what’s wrong? What hurts?”

Tony just clutched at his heart, mute, gaze fixed on the table.

* * *

They’d had plenty of scares in their lives. 

Their health just wasn’t what it used to be. Steve’s mobility was more limited, and good doctors with well-earned degrees often recommended he use a cane to avoid falls that could result in further injury. (To those doctors he rebutted, he could still _walk_.) Tony was in even more precarious shape—the healed-over cavity in his chest was still a perennial source of problems, and the occasional shrapnel scare kept them from entirely forgetting the origins of Iron Man—but his endless energy often fooled the bystander into thinking that he was hale and hearty.

Steve saw the whole picture.

Sitting in a chair that was slowly killing his back, Steve stared at his husband of thirty-eight years, one hand tangled with his own. He was holding back tears with an effort, aware that he was being too emotional but unable to help himself. Tony was his light, his life, his everything. He didn’t know where he’d be, lost and alone in a cold, cold universe, without him.

The preliminary scans were ambivalent. On the one hand, they ruled out certain monsters, which was a relief. On the other, they revealed the damage Tony’s heart had sustained over the years, the long beating his body had taken just to stay alive. He’d had too many serious, deep-body infections for anyone’s comfort, and like a broken-down car repaired again and again, the restoration process never quite brought him back to full health. Each time, he lost a little ground.

Steve bowed over Tony’s hand so no doctor or trespasser would see his own red eyes. He held Tony’s limp hand against his forehead and asked God for a few more decades, at least. He needed time to let go. 

No matter how grim his own specter in the mirror, Steve could not shake a tireless sense of youthfulness, immortality.

* * *

Rhodey showed up. 

It wasn’t that bad—Tony had had real health scares over the years, bleeding out, coding on the table—but Rhodey flew across the country to see him, anyway. Rhodey’s presence was a comfort to Steve, who could not get out a _let my husband go_ to the nurses who asked if he needed anything.

Steve knew he could be a mean old man, sometimes. He was undoubtedly the less likable half of the Stark-Rogers household: Tony was the charismatic one, the one who kidded around and loved puppies and deserved to live forever. Steve was the tired old warhorse, with little but love for his loved ones left.

Tony couldn’t talk much with the oxygen mask over his face, but he opened his eyes to look at Rhodey, brightening a little when he realized who it was. Rhodey was technically older than both of them, and yet he’d retained a vitality that had been sapped, somewhere, from Steve and Tony, a tradeoff in youth for metal and miracle.

Rhodey kidded Tony for a bit, earning a halfhearted smile, before he relayed the doctors’ thoughts: Tony’s heart was struggling. They had a treatment that could provide some relief; it was similar to dialysis. Tony would have to be in the hospital for a few miserable days, but then he could go home and hopefully live the rest of his life without microscopic shrapnel shredding his already-fragile heart. 

Alternatively: he could get another arc reactor.

Steve had to excuse himself, because he could not bear Tony to see Steve physically ill from the thought.

* * *

Steve let the little wooden stick float across the room, landing gently on Tony’s lap. 

Face scrunched in a perennial grimace, Tony blinked to see what it was, face softening as he looked up at the boat and the balloon attached to it. He reached out a hand to touch the boat, pushing it so it floated off. A real smile crossed his lips as it hovered like a blimp. He said nothing, too nauseous to speak, but that smile was worth a thousand words.

That smile was worth the whole world, as far as Steve Stark-Rogers was concerned.

* * *

On Saturday night, Tony slept in his own bed.

His pallor was still grim, his movements shaky, but the doctors were comfortable sending him home. Heart replacement was always an option, but Tony’s health was fragile enough. Steve wanted him well enough to walk before they even considered a major, potentially life-threatening surgery. 

The words _life-threatening_ were too terrible to consider. Like old swans, they huddled against the storms that life threw at them.

* * *

Steve believed in the Universe and the bountiful plentitude it offered. He believed in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He believed in laughter and love and the joy of unnameable things, in the possibility of exciting more, in the humble reality of mundane less.

When he knelt on bad knees in a pew on Sunday morning, well before the first prayer-goers would arrive for their communion, he wasn’t sure who or what he was thanking, except he was thankful for his life, and he wanted to express it to somebody. 

Even Tony liked to talk about the Universe as if it was listening, so Steve did, too. His Irish Catholic roots felt removed from his reality, but he liked to express his quiet appreciation, like writing a letter home.

He always started his silent letter with _Dear God_ out of habit. He made sure to say _Thank you_ first, and _Let it carry on forever_ , near the end. 

The Universe didn’t answer, but that wasn’t the point, for him. The point was simply saying the words, so he could have peace knowing he’d done everything he could to make it so.

* * *

He tried not to bother Tony, but he really couldn’t help himself. He adjusted the pillows; he fussed with the sheets; he brought water and saltines like clockwork. He offered to read to Tony if he was bored, but Tony just slept on, so he read aloud about Japanese printmaking just so he could spend a little time with him.

He worried about how thin Tony was, but Tony had always been on the edge of thin. Ever since Afghanistan, he’d struggled against an ever-frenetic drive to wring the most out of life. Steve, who knew the pain of being too skinny, urged him to eat, even brought home his favorite cheesecake to see if it might entice him, but Tony just turned green, rolled over, and kept dozing.

There was a certain labored quality to his breathing that Steve hated, did everything in his power to eradicate. He piled pillows behind Tony’s back and read to him some more. He offered to watch a movie, but Tony had no interest, insisting that the colors hurt his eyes, and he didn’t care to watch anything, anyway. 

He just had a headache, was all, he insisted. 

He just didn’t feel quite like himself, and that was fine. 

Steve could be patient.

* * *

Steve _would_ be patient, he insisted to himself, sitting on the bed and flipping through a photo album, desperate to keep his mind from wandering to grim, dark places. It was still a surprise to look in the mirror and see an old man, when so much of him—on the inside, anyway, his love and sense of humor and exasperation with newfangled technology—lived a younger life. 

So he looked back at the younger years, while Tony slept against his side.

There were pictures of them at the zoo, Tony bright-eyed and wondering as a colorful bird perched on his shoulder. (In Steve’s neat, cursive handwriting, the caption read, _Tony and Mango, May 1, 2019._ ) There were pictures of them at conventions, Tony looking electric in a tuxedo, introducing a new concept car to the world. (Again, in Steve’s handwriting: _Spring Stark Expo, January 14, 2024_.) There were pictures of them at the beach, Tony standing in front of the ocean looking back at him, a silver fox with a wry smile, one hand planted on his hip jauntily. ( _Oahu, April 3, 2033_.)

Steve lingered over the image, the scars on Tony’s chest a testament to the battles they’d endured, on and off the field. In every one of the pictures—even the ones where Tony was tired, sleeping in his suit in the back of a concept car or sitting chin-in-hand at a beautiful table playing chess with a robot—Tony looked stunningly alive, radiant with a life force that could not be dampened. He seemed extremely happy, like he could relax into his life.

A tear dripped onto a picture of Tony holding baby Casper, old but young, whimsical even in his golden years.

Steve carefully blotted the teardrop away, then shut the book, holding it to his chest. Tony wheezed softly in his sleep, and Steve cried for him, as silently as he could.

* * *

Tony was a messy person to love. Metaphorically—but also literally, leaving his everyday objects in found places. Steve could never get him to align his shoes by the door, or even hang up his coat, most days. Life was far too short for such parodies of orderliness, Tony claimed. Better to squeeze out every drop on meaningful tasks than waste time folding clothes.

On the very last Tuesday, Steve put Tony’s shoes neatly by the door for him. He didn’t know why; he just hoped it might make it easier for their next adventure.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Steve awoke—for the first time in thirty-eight years—alone.

* * *

_Two Years Later_.

Steve stood in front of the grave and said, _Hi, Tony_. He paused, then, waited a while for no answer. _I hope you’re doing well today_. _I haven’t been to church in a while_. 

He did not know why he acknowledged it, but he felt like saying it, so he did. _I miss you a lot_. It was hard not to cry. He felt like he’d cried more in the last two years than he had in his entire life, prior, and his entire life, prior, had hardly been a cakewalk. 

_I wish you were here_ , he went on, each thought a separate, distinct clause, each one bearing the weight of the world. _I feel quiet without you_. The little bungalow they had retired to wanted without him. _I feel empty without you_.

He stood, rotting, waiting, wanting, holding his cane in one hand, trembling with it. _You were the best thing that ever happened to me_ , he thought, numb to all feeling. _You were everything_.

It was very hard for him to sit down on the ground, but he made his way there anyway, leaning against the headstone with a sigh. _I wish I could stay with you forever_ , he admitted, sitting out by the grave for a long, long time.

* * *

And then:

“Hi, Mr. Rogers.”

“Hello,” Steve responded, recognizing Benjy Parker from the doorway of his little bungalow. “What can I do for you today, son?”

* * *

Sometime much after, two black swans drifted by an empty park bench, hooting softly to each other, remarking on something only swans would understand, before quietly moving on.

And somewhere far beyond the edge—of pain, and fear, and death—Steve and Tony danced again. Like children, without chagrin, sharing a joy of forever, simply waiting for them.


End file.
